


communion

by Saul



Series: groundhog day au [2]
Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, Raven!Neil, gratuitous angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saul/pseuds/Saul
Summary: Jean was his home and his jailer. Neil was the breath in his lungs and the chain on his ankle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [behind the scenes context](https://unkingly.tumblr.com/tagged/baptism) for this continuation of baptism. in short, Riko thoroughly took both control and revenge on those who wronged him. this involved making Andrew's hellish life doubly hellish, and mangling Neil's vocal cords.
> 
> but if you're here for gratuitous angst / dysfunctional co-dependency with Jean and Neil being ex-Ravens together, the extra bits aren't terribly important.

"Minyard has no business here." Jean muttered from his spot next to the fridge, a hip popped against the counter and both hands curled around his morning coffee. "He should learn to take a no."

Tired already from dealing with it, Neil shook his head and twisted his lips.

Jean's eyes tracked him, the ice in his words jagged and glittering. He was afraid. He had a right to be.

"If anyone asks," Jean murmured, voice dropping lower as Neil passed him to the fridge, his French a whispered hiss, "we did not speak with him."

Feeling sardonic, Neil stopped and gave him a flat look.

Jean caught it and rolled his eyes. Pity and sympathy both had been bled out of them; beyond that, it was four years too late for him to feel any measure of guilt for addressing a new wound.

"Anyway," spoken with a scoff, volume raising, French abandoned for English, "he has made us late. Take your breakfast to the car."

The demand was one that proved Jean's anxiety over Minyard's visit to Neil as they didn't technically have anywhere to be. Their professional team's trainer had laid out a strict exercise plan that included a mandatory rest day. Although they had never needed one before, the trainer pointed out that they weren't getting any younger and that the body's needs changed. While horror crept into their teammates' faces on the reminder, she continued to say that they were too old as it was to ignore their limits.

It was the worst thing to tell ex-Ravens never before allowed an upper limit on their bodies' tolerance, but she didn't know that. 

Their mandated rest day were Mondays. Rather than take it in bed or on the couch as the others spoke happily of doing, Jean and Neil packed in as many errands, PR events and _work_ as they could.

The professional scene didn't allow for their days to be anything less than twenty-four hours, and they felt each and every minute of it on a wide open Monday. Groceries took no time. The bank, even less. Laundry, an apartment-wide cleaning, lunch out, car repair or wash, bills, and then it was three-thirty in the afternoon and they stood adrift in their living room with too much time before they could reasonably attempt sleep.

Typically, Jean turned to books. They hadn't the time or access to pleasure reading in the Nest. Whether he genuinely enjoyed what he read was debateable: as he'd pointed out to Kevin, interviewers ate up an Exy player capable of quoting dusty classics. His image was as important as his ability on the field. He hadn't Kevin or Riko's well bred public faces, but he could work the _well-educated ahtlete_ angle.

Meanwhile, Neil turned to a news or sports station. It was something to watch and listen to that didn't really mean anything. It wasn't as if his interviews ever lasted long; even with a translator to speak for him, he didn't (as Riko once put it, his smile one Neil was quick to look away from) have much to say.

That wasn't true. Or maybe it hadn't been, but it was true now. Neil wasn't sure. He didn't like to think about it, his mind already crowded up with too many thoughts he never learned to express.

To no fault of his non-verbal vocabulary: he'd taken to sign language like a fish in water. It was just, aside from Jean or Kevin, no one paid him the same favor.

Jean was Neil's lifeline and his jailer. Neil was Jean's support and his chain.

That was true.

The day crawled on.

They had an appointment with the Master on Thursday, a practice game on Friday, and the real deal on Sunday. Riko was sure to visit sometime between Thursday evening and Saturday morning, as his team had secured their spot in the final four. Whether Kevin came with him or not depended entirely on Kevin's coach, as his team was the one to face Jean and Neil's.

Kevin probably wouldn't show. Nice as it was to think he understood his presence put Riko in a better mood, whether he recognized it or not, he would not go out of his way for Jean and Neil. He had a game to practice for.

That was, like the sky being blue and the sun burning hot, true.

Outside the expansive windows of their corner suite, the sky blackened and the sun disappeared. Neil clicked off the television after the last evening segment on recent developments in the Exy world, his usual tv time going over by thirty-five minutes. Andrew Minyard in a crisp black suit along with a quote from his accusation of the Moriyama prodigy sabotaging other teams' players, much like the sun, disappeared.

When he stood for the bathroom, he saw the rigid set to Jean's shoulders. When he passed by his expensive leather armchair, the man tapped his fingers on his hardcover and caught Neil's eye.

On errands and on the team, Jean acted as Neil's translator. In the home, he insisted on a vacation, and would not look at Neil's hands if he began signing. 

After six years a unit, they read all they needed from each other without need for any language. The true origin came from the weeks to follow Neil's forced operation, the need for escape before Riko did something _worse_ spurring him to learn a language for Jean and him alone and to finally, finally plan their escape. Once Jean had caught on to the intent behind Neil's rapid signing, he had distanced himself and refused to acknowledge what he saw. Speaking a language that Riko didn't understand had gotten Neil in this position, as far as he knew. Why did Neil insist on making problems for himself? For the both of them?

At the time, Jean had known better than Neil. Kevin had learned too, unable to accept Neil's silence on Exy topics, and informed Riko of what he caught Neil signing to Jean. The punishment hadn't involved another operation, but it had made holding a racquet, never mind signing, close to impossible.

(Some nights - many nights - Neil wondered what he'd do if Jean died.)

(He had decided, after graduating from Edgar Alan and having his leash lengthened, he would be able to well and truly run. He would be able to do as his mother had, pack up and drive away and not look back.)

(He would be able to die as his mother had, nameless and alone and fearful.) 

(It didn't seem like the worst way to go. He _missed_ fear.)

The book was set aside. 

Together, they moved to the bathroom.

Toothpaste. Floss. Mouth wash. Turning the shower on, Jean rinsed off. He stuck his head around the curtain to tell Neil they were almost out of body soap and to make a note. Neil made the note, double checked their apartment's locks, and, as Jean took longer than usual, forego waiting, strip, and climb in himself.

The reason for Jean taking longer became immediately apparent. The man stood stock-still under the warm spray, eyes blank and body so tense _Neil_ felt the ache in his bones. 

Their shower was blessedly large enough that Neil could lean around Jean without touching him and swap the temperature from lukewarm to ice cold. 

The water changed. Jean jumped.

Neil tsked, shoving him forward when he stepped back and onto Neil's foot. 

With residue shampoo and conditioner on the floor, Jean, of course, slipped. Eyebrows jumping, Neil darted to catch him before he bashed open his head. The awkward angle sent them both down, legs knocking and feet sliding and Jean cursing short and sharp in colorful French. 

They didn't crack their skulls open, but Neil's tailbone would protest the fall in the morning. He'd had worse. He would have worse.

"Neil," Jean started in reprimend, and stopped. 

Overhead, the shower's cold spray coated them both, the room's humidity cut through with frigid mist. Jean's teeth chattered. He tried to clench his jaw shut and hide the reaction, but Neil gave his side a flick and he relaxed enough to breathe again.

They wouldn't be able to stay like that for long without risking disease, but Neil dragged Jean back and scooted his aching tailbone enough to be semi-comfortable even on the hard tile.

In search of heat and whatever else, Jean leaned back. He almost, almost curled into Neil's chest - Neil felt the beginnings of it, the shift to the side and legs drawing up - but it had been an action unthinkable in Evermore and rare as a blue moon since graduation. 

Arms wrapped around Jean, back plastered to front to trap as much warmth as possible, Neil signed on Jean's stomach, _Don't get mad at me. You were taking too long._

Without answering, Jean's head fell back onto Neil's shoulder.

Neil hooked his chin over Jean's, shivering at the cold water plastering his darkened curls to his head. Jean's skin felt icy, pale skin made even paler. Jean didn't seem to notice. This, too, the silence and stillness and lack of care of what happened to his body, had grown after graduation. 

That was not good.

(Mondays were not good days.)

At last they had their own space. But Riko regularly visited, regularly reminded them it was their space only on his whim, and to think Riko would ever fully leave their lives was a ridiculous impossibility. But Neil remembered Millport. He remembered his mother. 

Jean barely remembered France. He certainly did not remember his mother. Riko would never leave Neil, but he would especially never leave Jean.

(They were each other's foundations, Neil and Jean, Jean and Neil, their reason for survival and their reason for a facade of sanity and they were crumbling on the edge every second they did not accept that they were two parts of one broken whole.)

Neil bounced the shoulder Jean's head leaned on and cleared his throat next to his ear loud enough to be heard over the shower. 

Jean refused to move.

Faced abruptly with the reality of Jean's maybe-or-not passing, the embers of what had once been a willful fire to survive sparked his fingers into jabbing Jean's side. Jean shifted, but didn't get up. Neil pinched, Neil pulled, his breath a huff drowned out by the shower.

Finally, finally, Jean grumbled, "Annoying," and moved. 

In a rare moment of accepting both weakness and the need for close comfort, Jean ended up stretching his unfairly long legs to the shower's dials and nudging the temperature to something reasonable. He then settled back with a put-upon sigh, as if he hadn't just slipped away from Neil twice in one night. 

Nervousness threaded through Neil's chest. Something close to but not exactly fear flared up. He did as he remembered his mother doing in quiet corners of ratty motels. He dragged Jean's bulky frame further up and rocked them both. Remembering, he hummed a soothing tune, but the sound came out mangled and torn and he flinched and stopped. Focusing entirely on the back and forth motion did little to banish the nightmares but here, at least, helped bring to mind what had been and what _could_ be.

They could be not fucked up. They could manage. 

Maybe Minyard would dent Riko's reputation. Maybe they wouldn't have to go to the Olympics with him. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Whatever the future held, they may have moved out of Evermore, but they weren't _living._ Neil tucked his face against Jean's neck, lips pressed close to the sluggish heartbeat that reassured him of the potential for life.

Even in the warmth, Jean shivered. After a moment, he took up where Neil had failed. The hum followed no tune Neil recognized, but it felt good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :( 
> 
> the kids aren't alright

The first night they had moved into their apartment, adrift and alone and apprehensive at three days without access to a Court, Neil had plunked himself in Jean’s lap and curled against his chest with the tv remote in hand.

It was not something he had done at Evermore. It was not something Jean would have ever thought to do at Evermore.

“What am I supposed to do with you keeping me here?” Jean had chided once his hesitance abated. “We have unpacking to do. Errands to run. I was only sitting to open that box.”

Neil, not caring about his irritation so much as the anxiety running thick and heavy below, had shrugged and curled tighter, hitting the power button for their widescreen and flipping through the channels until he found the news. The local station ran a piece on a nearby park and its fundraising efforts. It was full of names and sights unfamiliar to either Raven, the joking worry about what the park would do in the winter an uncomfortably odd one. Illinois wasn’t so far from Edgar Alan, but it felt like an ocean spanned between them and their cage.

That they had graduated from.

That they had left.

Within seconds of the news anchor telling them about the park’s planned festival, Jean attempted to shove Neil off. As any good limpet, Neil stubbornly clung harder.

“We have work to do,” Jean growled.

Neil glanced to the box he had sat to open. Defiance rising sudden and demanding in his broken throat, Neil shifted enough to stick out a leg and kick the offending cardboard away. It didn’t go far – they had packed everything, and _everything_ meant heavy Exy equipment and little else. Still, it made his point clear.

“Neil,” Jean hissed, his fingers digging into Neil’s upper arms like nails. For once, there were no bruises, no stitches, for either of them to worry about.

Nothing to make their new professional teams and nurse wonder. Neil had picked up his racquet to pack and wondered, if he asked nicely, if Jean would crack his rib with it. Something, he had wanted to show _something_ , let someone see, let Riko be ruined.

But the fire quenched the moment he’d turned and saw Jean: listless, shoulders slumped, bottle of the pain suppressants they occasionally took before games in hand. He looked defeated. He looked resigned. He looked worse than he ever had bloody and broken.

He was broken.

 _You’re thinking of leaving me,_ Neil had wanted to scream, horror replacing defiance. Like a bird in a sinking wire cage, wings beating against the walls, feathers torn and beak jagged, water rising. _Don’t you fucking dare. We’re almost there._

(Feeling thus tamed, Neil had packed the racquet and quietly padded across their small room to bring Jean back with a flick to his ear.)

They had been almost _there._ Neil hadn’t known what _there_ was, but he was pretty sure it was supposed to be this: miles between them and Evermore, their own contracts under their own names, their own deals with the Moriyama family regarding their cut of the pay (for raising them oh-so-well), their own chance to do what they wanted when they wanted without anyone watching. Their opportunity to return to what Neil once had, plus Exy.

Instead, they had a feeling of emptiness and terror.

Let it be known: before graduating from Edgar Alan, they lived, breathed and bled Exy, breaks made for food, mandated publicity events, Riko’s correction and sleep, in that order. The other Ravens joked that Riko’s Perfect Court were Perfectly Chaste. It made for a funny few laughs until number sixty-five, Dylan Thomas, bragged about how _he’d_ gotten in Jean Moreau’s pants and, after plenty of cajoling on the details from drunken friends, the other Ravens learned the sordid details.

A story like Jean Moreau’s sobered a man up right fast. It was buried just as fast in the back of more than a few minds under tightly sealed _not my problem_ and _poor bastard_ and _honestly? not really surprised, Riko’s different_ , and certainly never addressed to Jean Moreau or his partner, Neil Josten.

That was fine. It had already buried, rotted and festered within Jean’s mind. It had already spread, sick and nauseating, through Neil’s.

In their first night at their new, cream walled and light blue carpeted apartment, Neil curled in Jean’s lap and refused to let go. Jean snarled, and hissed, and complained, and choked, and buried his face into Neil’s hair and clutched his back and rocked, rocked, rocked. He cried near silently, the occasional hiccup interrupting dragging breathes and ragged exhales.

Neil hushed him as well as he could, teeth clenched until his jaw hurt, air whistling through his closed throat. Warmth fell onto his cheek and slid to drip off his chin, Jean’s first tears in over three years shared between them. It was only fitting.

“We need to call Riko,” Jean murmured, voice wet. Neil couldn’t protest: his arms were trapped against Jean’s chest, hands numb, and he didn’t want to move, though nothing in him agreed about what to do instead. “He’ll want to know we’re here.”

Neil tried to protest. The sound - he knew the sound - he struggled with his own throat and managed, “Nn.”

Jean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “He’ll be displeased if we don’t.”

“Nnn,” Neil would chip a tooth, he swore he would, his jaw clenched so hard and his tongue was a slug, his throat useless, his whole self useless, “nnnh, nn, no, no, nnn, no.”

 _One night!_ He wanted to snarl. _We can have one night. The great King will live. Or maybe, without someone to wipe his ass, he won’t. Even better._

The one word he had left was not only the most useless word of them all, but sounded mangled beyond belief. His vocal cords would not outlast his thoughts.

One deep breath in, and now Jean hushed him. Wrung dry of tears, the shake leaving his frame, he picked Neil up rather than fight him. Neil, stubborn to the last, wrapped his arms around Jean’s shoulders and let himself be carried. Anyone else might have struggled - a backliner wasn’t small, no matter how short - but Jean shifted him to a more comfortable carrying position with ease. In return, Neil put his lips to Jean’s next and soundlessly mouthed what he wanted nothing more than to say.

This closeness was unprecedented. Jean would never in the Nest, their room unlocked and easily violated and the rest of the world a stage to prove themselves. It was too obvious.

Their connection was not romantic. It was _don’t die_ and _let me go_ and _I need you_ , it was _Kevin’s whipped_ and _Riko’s a bastard_ and _help me with calculus,_ it was _what’s your favorite meal? green curry and chicken. there’s an Indian restaurant next to our hotel. they won’t notice if we pay a busboy to pick it up._

In the beginning, Jean would scold him for being childish and defiant. He would warn Neil that his mouthiness would get him in trouble. It did, it always did, it had, in a big way, but Neil couldn’t help it, and now, in the recent months, Jean barely paid it mind. He was fading. He was broken.

Their cell phones sat on the sparkling kitchen counter. Their apartment was objectively nice, Neil knew. He just couldn’t care. The Moriyamas were always full of opulence. They were on the Moriyama’s payroll. It was not worth it.

When Jean tried to lower him to the counter beside their phone, Neil tightened his grip, panic rising, and then, on Jean’s quiet, familiar, French, “Don’t be a child,” sobbed out a breath and let go.

 _Let’s go to bed,_ he signed the moment he had his hands back. Jean, phone in hand and thumb hovering over the speed dial, paused to watch him. Emboldened, Neil repeated the question, again and again and again.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Jean said. “We need to correct our sleeping schedules. The Master said.”

 _It feels like lights out,_ Neil signed. _Let’s go to bed._

Jean hesitated.

 _Or,_ Neil added, heart fluttering, _you can call and let me talk to him._

Scowl light, Jean lowered the phone.

 _The couch,_ Neil begged without word. _Let’s sleep on the couch._

(Beds with more than one person were – not good.)

 _Then we’ll get on schedule,_ he continued. _We have three twenty-four cycles. That’s a lot of time._

It was.

Jean set the phone on the counter. He signed, _When we wake–_

 _– We’ll call_ , Neil finished.

What tension had collected in the corners of Jean’s mouth lightened.

Neil huffed aloud, the sound sharp and short. Jean’s eyes immediately moved to him.

 _Carry me,_ he demanded. _Pick me back up._

Jean made an eloquent noise of disgust.

“One day, and you’re already spoiled.”

Neil nodded. When Jean attempted to move around him without obliging his demand, he reached out, looped an arm over the other’s shoulder, wrapped his legs around his waist, and gave him no choice.

—

They didn’t fuck. That would be weird.

Some days, their fingers tangled over the car’s gearshift as they drove to and from practice. More frequently, their knees knocked under the breakfast table and their sides lined up tight on the bench. Most often, Jean put his hand to the small of Neil’s back while Neil hooked his thumb into Jean’s pocket.

Within the Nest, that was true anywhere the media couldn’t see. Kevin didn’t want their careers stalled because of an unnecessary homosexual hang-up. Riko didn’t seem to care, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t have time to think about going farther than he bare minimum of the reassurances they needed to get through the day.

Anyway, they were two parts of a whole. Jean, born for it; Neil, remade into it. They didn’t need to do anything to understand that.

Anyway, fucking was. Sex was. It wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t wanted. It made Neil want to retch (his mother’s lessons emphasized by Riko’s, and Yvonne’s, and Robert’s hands) and Jean _did_ retch (his bed was not safe, his room was not safe, his everything hurt) the one and only time in the Nest he had climbed into Neil’s bed and they had stripped and Neil had rolled his hips up into Jean’s and cupped his ass and Jean had shuddered, nearly kneed Neil in the groin, and stumbled away to the bathroom.

Kissing was good. No one wasted much time with kissing, even if Riko ensured they wouldn’t bite.

On the couch, Neil sprawled on top of Jean (they had fallen as such and didn’t feel like moving), the tv droning in the background, they wasted time with kissing.

Objectively, Neil knew they probably weren’t that good. Their teeth clicked. Their noses knocked. It was pretty wet. It featured a lot of lips closed around one another’s and humming (Jean) or squirming (Neil). It got better when they wasted time with exploring the rest of each other’s upper halves: a kiss to the temple, to the cheek, below the ear.

On an unknown impulse, Neil stuck his tongue in the aforementioned ear. Jean grimaced, swatted the back of Neil’s head, and grumbled in French, “Disgusting. You are disgusting. A disgusting disgrace.”

Jean’s ear was pretty disgusting. But then the mood for kissing evaporated, and Neil instead butted his head under Jean’s chin and wormed his hands under Jean’s shoulders and made himself as comfortable as possible, ear pressed over a steady and slow heartbeat. Jean turned his head to watch the television, his fingertips tucked into the waistband of Neil’s pants, thumb rubbing a calming circle on Neil’s hip bone.

It was not something they would have ever done in the Nest.

For the three minutes it took for Neil to fall asleep, he decided: the apartment wasn’t all bad.

—

And then Andrew Minyard (attorney at law) won his case, proved Riko Moriyama a monster on live television, and the Olympics committee scrambled to find a replacement for their second-best striker.

Kevin, Jean and Neil had all declined to testify in the trial. Riko had thought Minyard of no concern, and had wanted them to stay out of even his defense. Instead, they watched from the comfort of Jean and Neil’s couch, Kevin having flown in the morning of after a pre-season game between his pro team’s main rivals. Looking at him, one could not tell he was running on less than an hour of sleep and ten-plus hours of intensive practice, camera time, and having his all-but-blood brother be convicted of first degree murder.

Half-way through the final waiting period before the jury’s verdict, cheery commercials on bread and coverage and deck repair playing, simply pressing against Jean's sit wasn't enough. Neil spun himself to plop his head in Jean's lap, his feet thrown up on the couch's arm, attempting to summon the bravado to be casual. Jean let him with a quick glance to their guest, though his arms remained stiffly at his sides. Both of their necks prickled with Kevin's gaze.

“Is that new?” Kevin asked, awkward despite himself.

Neil shook his head, not moving his eyes from the television.

Jean licked his lips in nervousness and looped his arm behind Neil, fingers tucking under his shirt hem.

Kevin, after a moment, looked away.

“Keep it private,” he said, voice tense. “The US Court’s already going to suffer from this trial. The committee’s not sure they can take Riko on no matter what the verdict is. I won’t have you two put on probation, too.”

“We won’t,” Jean assured him, voice light. “We will do everything to ensure the Court has our best game.”

Neil felt very, very small. Jean’s thumb rubbed a circle into his hip; his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

They were doing better, he reminded himself. They were getting better. That they let Kevin see was a sign they were improving. Wasn't it?

(Or, he admitted begrudgingly to himself, it proved just how awful of a time this was.)

The commercials ended. The verdict had been reached: Riko, guilty on a count of first degree murder against Aaron Minyard, guilty on two counts of accessory to assault and robbery, guilty of facilitating crime, guilty of everything. As the trial occurred in South Carolina, Riko received the death penalty by lethal injection.

At that, the tv went dark.

Neil and Jean blinked, their eyes dry enough to hurt.

“Jeremy Knox is our only other option,” Kevin said into the silence. He dropped the remote back onto the coffee table, his face like stone. “He’s not half as good of a striker as Riko, but he’ll work well with the team.”

Jean’s fingers dug into Neil’s hip. Neil whined a quiet protest - at what, he didn’t know.

“I know you have a problem with him,” Kevin continued, his eyes trained on Jean. “Get over it. We are going home with the gold.”

Jean remained silent.

“Do not jeopardize this, Jean.”

Kevin’s voice shook. It shook. It never shook.

Neil made a strangled, choked noise in the back of his throat. His thoughts whirled, but his fingers felt cold, as if Riko were crushing them under his boot. He would not be able to sign fast enough to make his point.

“It’s Riko’s fault,” Jean gasped out. No. Accused. “If he hadn’t– every time the Trojans- every time K… Knox– he pulled one of my nails out, Kevin. Every. Time. I looked.”

“I know.”

Neil thought: _And yet, you did nothing. You did less than nothing. You let it happen. You left me to patch him. I used to look up to you._

It held no fire. It hadn’t for years, since before graduation.

“But,” Kevin persisted without flinching, because Neil and Jean were getting better, Jean was realizing what Neil had always tried to teach him, that what Riko did wasn’t deserved, but Kevin, he lived with Riko, he had never left any part of Riko behind. This was the first day of a long, long life for Kevin Day. He started it with his escape, with Exy. “Knox is our only choice. Riko’s not going to be here. We need to think about our long term strategy.”

“Leave.”

Kevin froze.

“What?”

“If Exy is what you’re going to talk about,” Jean snapped, the French fluid and commanding on his tongue, “leave our home. This is not the time. We don’t want to hear it.”

Neil hadn’t said or thought any such thing, but it was, as soon as Jean said it, exactly what he wanted. What a marvel thing, to both want and hear one’s wants spoken aloud.

Kevin appeared as equally baffled. No, he was angry; he stood, fists balled; he had never laid a violent hand on Jean or Neil off the court, his eyes were set to a different prize, and yet - the number on his cheek, the fury in his eyes — Neil flinched.

At that, voice low and cold and so full of hate it was a surprise he didn’t choke, Jean snarled: “ _Leave us_ , Day. We will see you at practice.”

Kevin, for the first time in what felt like years, took a good, honest look at them. Sometime in the exchange, Neil had sat up. Still, his side, foot to shoulder, remained pressed against Jean's.

Whatever Kevin saw made him leave without another word.

A fine tremor ran through Jean’s frame. His chest heaved as if he’d ran a marathon, his eyes glued where Kevin had last been.

Neil, after a long, long moment, unfolded himself from Jean’s side. Like a puppet with his strings cut, Jean slumped and watched him fetch the remote, turn, and flip the tv back on.

The news was full of Riko’s face, Riko’s names, Riko’s crimes. It was mesmerizing to hear what they had known in silence now said aloud, especially by complete strangers.

“Neil.”

Neil looked to Jean.

He didn’t look very different. He didn’t look stronger, or happier, or sadder. In a mirror, Neil supposed he didn’t look much different, either.

Jean patted his lap, two small taps that barely made a noise.

“Come here. I need you.”

It was a marvel thing, to hear what Neil had known in silence now said aloud.

Maybe they weren’t doing better. Maybe things had gotten worse.

Either way, Neil curled into Jean’s lap, Jean’s arms around him, his heartbeat strong beneath Neil’s ear, Riko's death sentence in their ears, and, for however brief a time, felt nothing less than completely whole.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil extra on a tentatively ok, if not happy, future.
> 
> dedicated to [fadedclassic](archiveofourown.org/users/fadedclassic/pseuds/fadedclassic) for all that wonderful jean/neil talk, and accidentally (but also, perfectly) introducing jeremy/jean/neil into the picture. I wish I could make this into a 100k series.

The Olympics weren’t what Jeremy expected.

Oh, sure. The training was the same. The coaches yelled the same. The strict diets sucked the same. The weight room stank the same. The pressure to do his best every day, whether practice or game, was extraordinary, but he’d expected that. He’d expected bumps in the road as America’s best learned to play together in the scant four months that made up the Exy off-season. He’d played with a few of the US Court before - Alvarez for one, Day for two, both of them having followed him to their first team in Dallas out of college - but he wasn’t a _fool_ , he knew the arrogance that came with being the best.

He was technically only there because of a tragedy (which he did his best not to text Laila _I told you so!_ about because he was a good person, but also Riko Moriyama had always rubbed him _so wrong_ and his gut had been _right_ , the guy was a nutcase). It put him in the unique position of both courteous modesty and explosive excitement, though no one except the Committee seemed to care about how he’d gotten in, only that he did his best. Jeremy didn’t need much encouragement to do that, as he was on the _US Court_ , he was going to play in the _Olympics_ , he was going to _rock it._

The locker door two down from him slammed; he jumped, the jersey he’d been zoning out on (and, from the ache in his cheeks, smiling mindlessly at) tumbling from his hands.

Now that he had Jeremy’s attention, Nathaniel Wesninski, the first-or-second-best (depending on who you asked) backliner Exy had ever seen, jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the gym door.

It was only then that Jeremy realized the rest of the room had already cleared out.

“Right. Warm ups.” Jeremy laughed off, or tried to, as Nathaniel’s expression didn’t flicker and it was not a little intimidating. “I’ll be right out.”

A frown tugged Nathaniel’s lips down, his brow furrowing. Nathaniel always seemed to be frowning when he had to interact with Jeremy. Jeremy wished he’d learned more sign language than what the coaches had deemed necessary for interacting with the backliner, _or_ that Nathaniel had actually passed out his phone number to his teammates instead of all contact going through Jean Moreau so that they could text and Jeremy could maybe, maybe, not feel quite so freaked out around the short, pissy backliner.

When it became clear Nathaniel wasn’t going to leave without him, Jeremy averted his gaze, swiftly finished changing, and all but scrambled for the gym door.

(The sad thing was, this behavior from Nathaniel wasn’t new.)

Nathaniel followed quiet as a shadow. Jeremy tried not to feel his eyes on his back, or watch too obviously when Nathaniel broke off from Jeremy to rejoin Jean’s side and the two participated in a rapid exchange of fluttering hands, frowns, scowls, and - at last - Jean rolling his eyes and ushering them both onto the lap track.

It was pretty weird.

Even for Ravens (and Jeremy had worked with Ravens - see: Kevin Day and half the Olympic team), the two were pretty weird.

Jeremy had no idea why he attracted more of their attention than anyone else. And he did. He totally did. Jean was pleasant enough in the cold, distant, _I’m making small talk because it’s expected of me_ way that most Ravens had, but no one save Moreau or Day appeared to make a blip on Wesninski’s radar off the court. No one except Moreau, Day, or _Knox,_ because his life just had to get real fucking weird after the happy invite to join the US Court.

That night at their assigned hotel, Jeremy laid face-first on the plush carpet of his old teammate’s room and bemoaned the attention he was receiving. He just didn’t get _why._

Having matched Jeremy beer for beer and a collective twelve cans strewn around them, Alvarez said Jean had a crush on him.

Jeremy, a mature adult, imagined a blushing Jean tentatively kissing him, and how quickly the kiss would deepen, and how gentle he’d need to be when he cradled Jean’s face, Jean gasping breathy French in his ear, how he’d finally let the cold facade crack and–

“But it’s usually Nathaniel messing with me,” he feebly protested, his hands covering his too warm face. Gods. He really should not be drinking. They had morning practice. They always had morning practice. He should not have been drinking _this much._

“So they both have crushes on you,” Alvarez said, paused, and then cackled. “First Day, then Moreau, then Wesninski. You’re like a Raven whisperer.”

Jeremy did not want to be a Raven whisperer. He groaned into his hands, feeling his face heat up even furhter.

Once she contained her cackling to little snickers, Alvarez shook her finger in his direction and tsked. “Should’ve expected both. Those two might as well be siamese twins. It can’t be healthy, but hey, they’re Ravens, I wouldn’t say I’m surprised.”

She had him there. Imagining both Nathaniel and Jean taking an interest was much easier than imagining just Jean, because the two did _everything_ together, the two never spent more than five minutes apart, the two didn’t trade kisses or hugs but they did trade looks and unspoken commentary. Jeremy was pretty sure they took showers together, and not in the sexy way. Just in the way of two people who did not understand how to function without the other within arm’s reach.

(He’d asked Kevin once if the two were dating. Kevin had given him a look like he was an idiot, but otherwise not replied. Jeremy took that as a no, and half-believed it: how Jean and Nathaniel acted skipped straight from dating to fifty years married and ready to die together.)

But back to Jeremy’s woes on why Nathaniel persisted in low-key pestering him.

Jean having a crush on him was unrealistic. Jean and Nathaniel having a crush on him was unrealistic. Both options should not have stuck in Jeremy’s head, replaying throughout the next two weeks of training and making every team shower and close scrimmage something of a hormonal minefield.

He felt like a teenager again. Personally speaking, he blamed it on the stress of the Olympics.

Day was easy beyond belief to work with even in his period of mourning for Riko’s incarceration. The rest of his teammates were similarly great.

The same luck that had gotten him the spot on the US Court meant when they finally moved into the Olympic Village in Tokyo, Japan, Jeremy opened his room’s door to one tall and one short ex-Raven. They turned as one from the window overlooking the bay to look at him; Jean’s face was closed off while Nathaniel eyed him curiously.

The moment stretched too long and too silent between them.

Feeling put on the spot, Jeremy panicked and reacted with the first thing he could think of. He let his bag drop next to the door and signed, “ _Hi. Mind if I join you?_ ”

(He’d practiced it on the flight over, much to Alvarez’s amusement. He’d grown tired of his one-way conversations with Nathaniel after weeks of the guy all but stalking him; his vocabulary still wasn’t great, but it was enough to get through the small talk of a meeting at a bar.)

(Not that Wesninski or Moreau ever seemed to go to bars.)

(Jeremy thought he might like to try to drag them out sometime, if only to see if Jean _could_ relax.)

Both Nathaniel and Jean blinked. They exchanged a glance Jeremy couldn’t read, which made Jeremy feel rather silly and question if what he had done meant anything at all, or if he’d accidentally insulted Wesninski’s mother.

But then Jean said, “Of course. Please, come in. We’ve taken the bed by the wall. Will that be a problem?”

Nathaniel signed, his gestures generously slow, “ _Do you want coffee? It’s free._ ”

When Jeremy assured Jean that was just fine and Nathaniel that yeah, he’d love free coffee, and moved his bag to the empty bed, he _swore_ Nathaniel pinched Jean’s side with an impish grin.

Whether Nathaniel did or didn't, Jean wasn't having it. Jeremy had wondered if Jean intentionally avoided him; as he couldn't think of a reason why, he moved on to assume that Jean wasn't a friendly person. His interactions with the others agreed with that line of thinking. But if Jeremy were honest with himself, the theory didn't sit right with him. After all, he'd seen how Jean handled Nathaniel - with firm words and very few laughs, yes, but there was a tenderness underneath that, a genuine care and attachment.

Maybe Jeremy was imagining things. Maybe he was trying too hard to see the good in Jean Moreau. Honestly, it wouldn't have been the first time he'd assumed better when better was not to be found; his teammates had teased him about it before, during and after college.

Whether he was imagining it or not, Jean only showed that side around Nathaniel. At the heart of it, Jeremy just wanted them all to get along.

—

They had the week to settle in and adjust, though the tensions were so high Jeremy wasn’t sure how they could relax. He decided to give it a try anyway, and to make good on his errant thought; thus, he invited his roommates to check out the local bars.

Jean, who had returned to quietly looking out the window after Jeremy had settled in, his hands cupped around a near-empty styrofoam coffee cup, began an answer that sounded an awful lot like a no.

But Nathaniel interrupted by noisily rising from the hotel armchair, its legs clattering on the floor as he pointedly went for his shoes.

Jean stared after him, mouth agape and expression like he’d gotten a punch to the gut.

From that, Jeremy thought only Nathaniel would be joining him. But the rule of the two never being separated for longer than it took for one to tie his shoelaces held, as not a minute after leaving the room (Jeremy giving Jean an awkward wave and awkwarder smile) the door opened again and Jean stretched his impressively long legs to catch up with them.

“It’s a good idea to learn where we’re being housed,” Jean said, as if he had to justify his going out.

“Glad you could come along,” Jeremy replied, and meant it for reasons beyond his distress at being with someone he could barely communicate with in a country full of people he couldn’t communicate with at all. Nathaniel, Jeremy had a little figured out: the guy was still weird, but his lingering around Jeremy’s space had never turned into anything _bad._ In fact, there were a handful of memorable times where Nathaniel reminded him to pick up something he’d nearly forgotten, like his racquet or helmet (usually by tossing it at Jeremy’s head, but it was the thought that counted. He had great aim for a backliner).

But Jean remained distant. His skill on the court was _technically_ fine, but Jeremy saw how he tensed when Jeremy went to give him an after-scrimmage pat on the back. Moreover, he saw how Jean didn’t connect with any of the other players outside of the court, his words short and clipped to any who tried. Even Day had given small talk and outings to local pubs the old college try, and he was one of the most Raven-y Ravens of them all.

And Exy was a team sport, damn it! They had to get to know each other beyond their statistics! People played better with friends, that was the simple truth!

Two izakayas and one full, warm sake bottle later, and Jeremy professed his feelings on the importance of team bonding exercises like pub crawling to his current pub crawling teammates.

Nathaniel, (probably) sober, rolled his eyes and heaved an annoyed, _get a load of this guy_ sigh.

Jeremy very nearly crawled over the table to jab his finger into his chest. What the evening had taught him was this: Wesninski was a _little shit_ , and even though he didn’t have a voice, he managed to make himself the loudest person in the room.

“It’s true! You two work better together than with any other backliner, don’t you?”

“That’s different,” Jean said. Not including his translations for Nathaniel’s signing, it was two of maybe a dozen words Jean had said all night.

Jeremy didn’t give himself time to dwell on the satisfaction he felt at drawing an opinion out of Jean Moreau. He redirected his attention to Jean without pause. If he were less drunk, he probably could have thought of a better come-back, because he totally knew it was different, but, alas, what he asked was, “How’s it different?”

Jean seemed momentarily taken aback and unsure of how to answer, but unlike Nathaniel, he was definitely drunk, so Jeremy gave him a pass. Jean could balk. That was fine! They were being drunk buddies.

That was so cool, being drunk buddies with Jean Moreau.

“This is a good bonding experience,” Jeremy said, because he’d just thought it and it seemed like a nice thing to say besides being absolutely true. “And a nice night. Really. Thanks, guys. The nerves were getting to me.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Jeremy squinted at Jean. Nathaniel snorted behind his glass of cola.

“You’re not joking,” Jeremy asked. Or declared.

Jean took it as the former. “No?”

“The Olympics are _huge_. I’d be crazy not to be scared.”

“Stress keeps you on your toes,” Jean said, voice even but his eyes looking like something Jeremy didn't want to think too much about, “but you’re almost as good of a striker as Kevin. If you committed to a hit, you’d be on his level.”

“I’m not going to go out of my way to play dirty!”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jean started, stopped, and tensed. The look in the back of his eyes grew. Jeremy blinked at him. 

Nathaniel, after a moment, nudged him with his elbow and cleared his throat.

Slow and careful as an old, rusty machine, Jean cleared his throat and continued. “Checking is part of Exy. When you have the opportunity, you shouldn’t squander it.”

Jeremy cocked his head. He hadn’t known Jean had been watching his playing that closely.

Although talking Exy wasn’t typically a pub-crawling thing to do, Jeremy made an allowance here. “Wait. What do you mean?”

Jean cleared his throat one more time, and then told him.

And that was how they spent their first night in Tokyo: drunken Exy talks.

—

Their second night was much the same after an entire day of lectures from the local staff and impromptu interviews from journalists. They just started the pub crawl earlier.

Their third morning, Jeremy woke up with a tie around his head, his mouth feeling dry as cotton, and to the sight of fully clothed Nathaniel tucked along a half-naked Jean’s side. With an arm and leg thrown over the larger backliner and his head pillowed on Jean’s shoulder, the two looked gentler than Jeremy could ever have imagined them. Jean even had his nose in Nathaniel’s hair and his hand curled loosely in the black cotton of his t-shirt.

It did not look like two drunken friends falling asleep in each other’s arms.

But that was none of Jeremy’s business.

In any case, he did his best not to wake them as he crept for the bathroom. He might have succeeded on the way there, but he opened the door to Jean, plus shirt, reclining in the room’s armchair with a book over his face.

Jeremy raised his eyebrows at the sight. Anyone else and he would’ve laughed or made a _partied too hard?_ joke, but with Jean, he kept his thoughts to himself.

As he picked up his pants from the night before to put away, the pocket - or, his phone within the pocket - vibrated. Curious who would text him this early, he opened his cell to a message from an unknown number.

_He likes cream cheese bagels._

Jeremy squinted at the message, brain too fuzzy from the night’s drinking, jet lag, and the morning to process what he was seeing.

As he watched, the phone buzzed again.

_Toasted._

And again.

_I’ll take eggs with a side of bacon. Chop chop._

Jeremy looked back to his roommates’ bed. Nathaniel, phone in hand and obviously texting, didn’t return the look.

 _You are five_ , Jeremy texted back.

Nathaniel read the message and, still not looking away from his phone, gave his screen a little smile.

The next text was: _You’re an awful waiter. I want a refund._

Overall, it was a pretty weird, pretty sudden change in attitude.

But it was also silly, and ridiculous, and Jeremy felt completely justified in taking advantage of the atmosphere's change to smack Nathaniel with a pillow. When he explained why after Jean startled and lost the book from his face, Jean nodded in absolute understanding and agreement, which made Jeremy feel even more justified. When Nathaniel flopped on his back with an exaggerated shrug and petulant look on his face (which in turn started Jean on a rant that sounded tried-and-truly married), Jeremy had the foggy inkling he'd been played. As if Nathaniel had been scoping him out for the last four months, and it was only during the last night that he'd finally decided Jeremy was okay to joke around with.

It wasn't a nice feeling, but it was also just a feeling, and one fairly easy to ignore when it resulted in Nathaniel goading Jean into eating breakfast as a trio at the hotel's spectacular buffet.

—

The third night went a little differently.

Okay. A lot differently.

For one, they went out with more of their teammates. Jean and Nathaniel talked with Jeremy and Kevin only, which Jeremy only minded a little. Mostly, he was happy to be included in the circle, even though it made Alvarez joke that he should invest in a number five tattoo.

(“Poor taste,” he’d chided her, though drunkenly. “Riko’s barely been incarcerated.”

“Whatever,” Alvarez had dismissed him, “I always thought he was a dick. My judgment’s obviously better than his, and you definitely deserve a number.”

That was oddly touching. Jeremy drank to that.)

For two, after they’d stumbled home (Jeremy could _not_ do this a fourth night in a row, he was stumbling drunk and already regretting it) and Jeremy had finished ( _dibs!_ he’d called, which Jean and Nathaniel both had looked at him as if he were crazy for), he emerged to Nathaniel straddling Jean’s lap on the hotel bed, Jean’s face between his hands and foreheads pressed together. Jean murmured to him in a low, nonsense voice that Jeremy belatedly realized was French.

“Whoa,” Jeremy had said.

“ _Get off,_ ” Jean had snapped, his shift to a vicious mood sudden and real, and attempted to pry Nathaniel’s hands off.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jeremy yelped, hands up and palms out. “You guys are cool! I don’t care!”

Jean froze, eyes wide and glassy and– was he on the verge of tears? Holy shit. Why was he on the verge of tears? Had something happened in the bar? But Jeremy had been there the whole time, and he was pretty sure they had a great time. There’d been some talk on the high pressure situation of the Olympics, but it hadn’t gone far.

Before Jeremy could process anything further, Nathaniel took the opportunity to duck his head and stick his tongue in Jean’s ear.

It was a move a brat would pull. By Jean’s pinched expression and disgusted noise, he agreed.

Jeremy couldn’t help it: he laughed.

“Don’t encourage him,” Jean huffed, though his expression seemed torn between clamming up and outright panic. It was a look Jeremy empathized with given his own frequently flared up nerves, and also a look with so much emotion that Jeremy had to wonder if Jean Moreau hadn’t been replaced with a doppelganger on their way home.

“Sorry,” Jeremy gasped, still caught in good humor, “it’s just– does he do this often?”

“You have no idea,” was the return sigh.

Nathaniel licked a stripe up Jean’s cheek.

The war for panic or shut down faded as Jean’s cheeks colored.

“I can go,” Jeremy offered, privately admitting this wasn’t that big of a shock. Hotels were like dorm rooms with their lack of privacy; spending some time in the lobby as the two got each other out of their system was the least he could do. Especially because, alright, Nathaniel didn’t look that bad, and Jean looked the opposite of bad, and Jeremy was fully ready to spend a night pining for another body rather than play awkward, lonely voyeur to his roommates after they thought he’d fallen asleep.

He was turning for the door when Nathaniel snapped his fingers at him. The move caught Jean and Jeremy equally off guard, as both of them froze in their respective places.

Nathaniel beckoned him closer with crooked fingers and an oddly guarded look.

He held up one finger and pointed at his mouth. When Jeremy just stared at him, his expression grew annoyed, and he made the gesture again with emphasis on the _one._

The once. The. One time. The.

Jeremy was pretty sure he was still drunk. Jean was also probably still drunk. Nathaniel was not. Nathaniel wanted a kiss.

Jeremy was not so sure about that being a good idea.

“Uh.”

“It’s alright,” Jean murmured. Jeremy’s eyes snapped to find Jean’s grey ones already watching him, the whites bloodshot but near-tears no longer in sight. “If you want to. Is what he means to say.”

Nathaniel nodded.

That was not a good idea.

Weren’t Jean and Nathaniel dating?

This was weird.

This was surreal.

—

Be that as it may, Nathaniel was a very good, very distracting kisser. Jeremy jumped from his _one kiss_ understanding and straight into a _dozen plus_ , Nathaniel twisting around to sit with his back to Jean’s front without ever once unlocking their lips. A flick of tongue against Jeremy’s lips spread a warm, comfortable heat through his body - when he opened his mouth and Nathaniel licked in, he was pretty sure he forgot where he was.

When he opened his eyes again after a break for a breath, he found Jean’s gaze heavy on them both. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted. He looked like desire incarnate; he looked delicious.

Jeremy then remembered he owed Alvarez an apology cookie. She was right on the crushes, apparently. Fucking hell, she was right.

Fucking _hell_ , she was right.

When Jeremy reached for Nathaniel’s waistband, he found his wrists grabbed and redirected to Nathaniel’s shoulders. He rolled with it. When Jean murmured something (voice a husk, voice low) in French and Nathaniel tipped them off Jean’s lap and onto the bed, Nathaniel straddling Jeremy, he rolled with it. He wondered, actually, when this had been decided, and how he’d gotten so lucky.

They didn’t get their clothes off. That was fine. He rolled with it just fine, because Nathaniel let him grind up and then Nathaniel rolled his hips down, his back arched and eyes half-lidded, a moan shuddering out between grit teeth, and if Jeremy came in his pants right there, Nathaniel was quick to follow.

Nathaniel, Jeremy learned, made the prettiest sigh when he came. It was absolutely filthy, absolutely surprising, and absolutely lovely.

Jean chastised them both for making a mess, which struck Jeremy as potentially hypocritical because he _totally_ looked ready to mess up his pants, too. He’d watched the whole thing, Jeremy realized very belatedly. He’d not protested. He’d maybe given Nathaniel the idea. He hadn’t came in his pants through some force of will Jeremy didn’t understand, but he did lean in with the most adorable, hesitant expression and give Jeremy a peck on the lips, which made Jeremy forgive him for everything.

“Are you going to fall asleep there?” Jean asked, sounding stiff and tight and a little, itty bitty bit amused. Jeremy tried not to giggle about catching the note of humor, as the topic was very serious and Jean looked rather concerned. “This is our bed.”

“S’ comfy,” Jeremy slurred back, and scooched himself out from under Nathaniel and up to the pillows. Nathaniel barked a laugh and, before Jeremy could properly respond, pulled back to drag Jean into the bathroom.

As Jeremy had no room to be disappointed, he wasn’t. He drifted into a happy doze, though a piece of his mind that remembered his college days begged him to change his boxers before he fell asleep.

Jeremy woke enough to understand someone was slipping into bed somewhere, but not with him. He opened his eyes enough to see Jean slide in to Jeremy’s empty bed, Nathaniel once again clinging like a sleepy sloth to his chest. When Jean caught Jeremy’s eye, he schooled a flash of uncertainty behind a quieting finger to his lips.

When the lights went dark, Jeremy dove immediately into the dark of sleep. His only worry was that the space meant something had gone wrong.

—

As the days to follow proved, that space did not mean something had gone wrong.

Jean and Nathaniel would not sleep in the same bed as Jeremy. They would kiss, Nathaniel would frot and bend and let Jeremy do nearly anything as long as their pants stayed on. He wouldn’t explain why; any attempts to ask was met with terse silence, so Jeremy quickly gave up and simply conceded to their rules as he discovered them.

Jean liked kissing. Nathaniel liked kissing. Jeremy liked kissing.

As the adjustment period passed and the games got underway, the regularity of kiss-and-sleep was almost relaxing. It felt like a slow, sure thing in the middle of the most high-pressure play of Jeremy’s short life, a breath of fresh air after struggling not to drown. It felt calm. Their meetings were never rushed.

(Alvarez chided him on not being available as much as he had been, but it was a light teasing from her.)

After their team’s first win, Jean backed Jeremy into a wall and stole his breath. Nathaniel, with a mouthful of encouraging noises Jeremy couldn’t remember him making anywhere else, had a hand up Jean’s shirt and in the back pocket of Jeremy’s jeans.

It wasn’t hurried, Jean leaving his lips bruised and mouth dry, though the post-win energy made it feel so.

Honestly? Jeremy loved every second of it.

—

The Olympics went _great._ The US Court took gold, all its players performing their absolute best in front of the entire world.

Even better? Jeremy returned home with two numbers in his phone that, while he originally worried wouldn’t contact him again, sent a text nearly every day.

Nathaniel was the less consistent but more picture-prone texter. When the mood struck, Jeremy would receive an image-heavy chronology of the ex-Ravens’ day.

(And to think he’d thought Nath– _Neil_ , he wanted to be called Neil, he'd said-- well, case in point. He couldn't believe he'd thought Neil quiet).

Jean’s _good morning_ text never, not once, failed to arrive within fifteen minutes of six a.m.

(Jean had sent a picture of Neil cleaning up a spilled bowl of milk and cereal in explanation for the fifteen minute delay, his good morning written on a soggy post it note rather than texted. And to think Jeremy thought he lacked humor.)

They didn’t put a label on whatever they had because Jean and Neil seemed to abhor labels, but Jeremy did send them flowers for Jean’s birthday, and they actually agreed to meet up for Christmas.

Jeremy was appalled at their lack of Christmas cheer, only to then be appalled at their lack of Christmas _experience_ , and then– well, inviting them to Christmas diner with the Knox family was a must. They weren’t given the option to say no, as decreed by Jeremy’s mother after he’d explained the sordid situation.

Later, much later, Jeremy would be appalled to learn of the real reason for their lack of experience. He would never see the full picture of what had happened in the Nest, but he learned bits and pieces, and that was enough to raise his blood. When he swore that he’d show them all the finer aspects of life, he meant it. When Jean looked at him as if he was the sun given human form, he accepted it. If you asked Jeremy, they deserved the sun.


End file.
